Final Problem – AU

Holmes – Words

"May I?"

They were the first words spoken in our compartment for some time, uttered at a necessarily low volume to avoid waking the child that had finally fallen asleep on my leg after existing in a fever pitch of excitement ever since the first sight of land. Neils had thoroughly enjoyed our years of travel – each new country was greeted with the same enthusiasm, each country revisited was no less a source of delight. However we had learned that eventually the boy would fall asleep in the right conditions, especially if his companions were still and quiet for any stretch of time.

Watson handed over the sketch he had just completed, stowing his pencil in the battered portfolio. It was myself, seated with one foot propped upon the bench, a hand dangling from my upraised knee with a cigarette held loosely, my other hand steadying the boy who slept stretched out beside me. He had drawn the English countryside outside our windows as well; it was undoubtedly a perfect mirror of what he could see, but as usual there was no indication of himself in the picture.

It had been this way in his writing before we left Baker Street; apart from the fact that the stories were narrated in his voice you would not know of his presence and contributions to my work. His sketches were obviously drawn by someone – they were always unsigned – but there was never any image of himself in them, unless you counted the few where he sketched his hand as it held the shard, fragment or artefact that was the subject of the picture. I detested his absence from both his words and pictures but there was nothing I could do about it. The one discussion I had attempted with Charlie on the matter had not ended well, though he had forgiven me for it.

If each picture was worth a thousand words, then he had written encyclopaedias in the last five years. I do not know what he did with each set of sketches once they were finished, by all rights we should have needed a separate pack mule to transport them around, but the sketching had been McLeod's way of recording our triumphs and setbacks, as well as our friendship and daily life. My slowly developing relationship with Neils was in those pictures, as was Sigerson and LeBeau's work as explorer and antiquity expert respectively. I did hope that they weren't lost irrevocably, though it was possible that they had been destroyed as a threat to our safety. These last five years, we had needed our anonymity to survive and in the wrong hands the pictures would have threatened that.

"Ten minutes to London!" the porter shouted and we both turned to the window, craning our necks for the first glimpse of home as Neils stirred himself awake under my hand.

"Oncle?" he murmured sleepily and I pulled him up gently.

"Look, Neils – London!" I breathed, pleased beyond all words to be home at last. I was familiar with London in a way that I could not reproduce anywhere else. Though I could still use the traces upon a mans clothes in the middle of Rome to tell where he had been, it took considerably more footwork to do so – London I had memorised and catalogued much as a man does a lover. Watson shifted from his seat opposite to join us as we peered out at the smoky skyline, the silhouette subtly different and yet still recognisable after five long years away.

"I wired Mrs Hudson our arrival time," I informed my dear friend as we stood and gathered our coats, the books we had bought to occupy Neils and the two light bags we had carried with us. Our heavier luggage was in the baggage car and would require the services of a porter and his trolley.

"Then let us hope she has the kettle on, I'm gasping for a decent cup of tea," Watson pulled a face and I laughed. He really was particular about his tea and had treated us to several rather amusing rants about the misuse of good tea leaves on more than one occasion. Neils and I had learned to weather the storm quietly – to object was to heighten its fury.

"Oh Papa: you and your tea," Neils rolled his eyes, sending me a patient look. I smirked at him in response and fielded a quite imperious glare from Watson when he caught me. The houses were rushing past now, and I fidgeted into my coat and hat, checking anxiously that nothing had been forgotten.

"Its good to be home," Watson murmured, his face practically pressed against the glass, Neils beside him, no less excited. I fixed my eyes upon his dear form and nodded, unable to express how much I agreed with him.

Then the train was slowing and in moments we were stepping down onto the platform among a throng of people, listening to the cacophony of English accents around us as the passengers strove to clear the train and barriers and disperse into London herself. Watson had Neils and a porter in hand and so, by long established practice, I secured for us a cab to take us home to Baker Street. I bumped into a constable on the way, entirely by accident as I was trying to avoid a nanny and her herd of unruly charges. If the expression on his face was anything to go by, I would be receiving an official visit from the Yard at some point this evening.

"I must admit, Watson," I murmured as we all settled into the cab, "I do feel no little amount of trepidation at Mrs Hudson's reaction."

She had been sorely tried over the years, our landlady. Five years without word from either one of us was cause for a scolding at the very least. I hoped that Mycroft had at least borne the initial brunt of it all; she would not have been pleased to think that I had lied to her about my well-being. What she thought of Watson's absence was also a point of considerable concern to me – I would not have his decisions questioned by anyone.

"I plan on hiding behind her grandson," Watson nodded towards Neils complacently, recalling me to our conversation. I shelved my concerns for another time, after all we had no calls upon our time now, "I have no qualms on that front."

"Capital!" I grinned fondly at the boy who was hanging half out of the cab in order to see as much as possible.

0o0o0o0

You cowards! Heh heh…